Comfortably Numb
by Aya Salim
Summary: Tag to 9.10 'Road Trip', picking up right after the last scene of the episode. Dean takes the road, lost and devastated after his choice to split up and leave as he struggles to take in and deal with the recent events. One-Shot.


**A/N:** It's me again, with a one-shot this time that was killing me ever since 9.10 "Road Trip" was aired. I couldn't NOT write a tag for this episode and I had to wait long enough to see where the writers were taking us before I had a complete idea about what to write here. There is a lot of pain that the writers don't deal with on the show and, as usual, I can't resist the urge to deal with it my way. Specially that I have been so emotional after _Sharp Teeth._ So, here you go. I really hope you like it. _  
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And for the awesome people who read **_Breakable_**, hold your tomatoes, eggs, whatever you're intending to throw at me for not updating for so long, I know you hate me so much now. The final chapter is in progress and will be posted soon. :)

**Spoiler: **9.12, Road Trip.

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own Dean nor anything else but my plot.

**Warning: **A shitload of angst.

**Beta: **No one beta'd this fiction, and I really needed to get out of my system so please forgive any mistakes :)

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**"Comfortably Numb"**

_Come on, man. Can't you see? I'm poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed… or worse._

_I can't—I won't drag anybody through the muck with me. Not anymore._

_Go. I am not gonna stop you. _

_Just go. _

The words echoed in his head, over and over. Following his mind in every direction it tried to hide from the very recent traumatizing events. Haunting him. Torturing him. Like a large needle, sticking in the back of his head and unwilling to fall anytime soon.

Dean drove like a madman. He knew if he went less fast he would turn the wheels and head back to the dock where he had left Sam. He regretted the words almost once they had forced their way out of his mouth. But he meant every word; he wasn't going to drag anybody into this anymore. Specially his little brother. It was his job to keep him safe, even if that meant to protect him from himself.

He has been magnetic for disasters for a quite long time so far—well, _more_ disasters_, _their job was about disasters after all—hurting more than he saved, hurting everyone he ever cared about in the worst ways possible. Even Sam. _Specially_ Sam. He couldn't do this anymore. He wouldn't stand there and watch the only family he had left in the whole world get hurt because of him. Or die. Again.

Flooring the accelerator, the impala moved steadily under Dean's ministration despite the mess he was. She broke through the pouring rain smoothly with a _whoosh _as her tiers ate at the highway asphalt. The thick sheet of rain that had got heavier at some point almost made it impossible for Dean to see the road in front of him, but that wasn't a problem for him. He had driven in worse weathers before. Sometimes even bleeding and sporting a few broken ribs and a busted head, while an unconscious Sam lay limply in the passenger seat next to him.

What was really bothering him and making his vision waver every couple of minutes, was the stubborn tears the kept rippling through the bottom of his eyes. But he was more stubborn to allow them any kind of release. He refused to be break, even though he was already broken in so many levels. Even though there was no one around to see, he still refused to break.

Knowing that if he let that happen he might not be able to pull himself back together once again—not on his own, he blinked the tears away, raising his right hand and rubbing at his eyes with two fingers quickly. A few deep breaths later, the hunter became somewhat more in control.

He drove aimlessly, mind thousand miles back. The only thing that was keeping him in check, for _now_, was that he knew Cas was with Sam at the moment, and that Sam was _finally_ on the actual road of recovery. It hurt like hell to not be the one to ease his little brother's pain, though, but he trusted Cas. Their friend would take care of his little brother while he was gone, and what could be forever from now on.

Sighing heavily, the restless Winchester paid a fraction of his attention to the road as the rain let up slightly and dawn started to sit in. He found the next exit after making sure that a considerable number of miles separated him and Sam. If he was being honest with himself, he could use a little break. God knew he needed it.

A couple of miles later, the Impala was heading down the main road of the town which Dean didn't even bother trying to know the name of. He found a small group of people talking on the sidewalk and thought it was too late for anybody to be in the streets in this chilly night—or morning. The hunter looked at his watch that flashed '6:27', a soft "huh" slipping from between his lips. Or morning then.

A bar or a liquor store wouldn't be open that early—in his case, that late. He let an angry sigh out. He really could use a drink right now. It didn't matter, though; he always carried around his spare alcohol stock, just in case. But extra booze wouldn't harm anybody. All he needed to do right now was to find a motel, he thought.

He searched the town for one of the cheap motels they would be staying at—him and Sam—and finally found one near the town entrance, which he must have passed by when he first got into the town and haven't even noticed it.

Not giving his mind the chance to work itself up more than it already was, he parked the car and retrieved the bottle of jack from the trunk, the spare duffle bag of cloth they always kept there was totally forgotten. Dean walked into the office; behind the counter was a tired-looking, old lady who greeted him with a warm smile that he couldn't return. He tired to twitch his lips upwards in an empty smile but he was sure it looked more like a grimace.

"Checking in, sweetie?" The old woman asked, getting up from her chair, which really didn't make a difference since she was as short as how she were when she was sitting down.

"Ah, yeah." Dean winced at how gravely and tired his voice sounded.

"King or queen?" She asked him as she busied herself retrieving a notebook from another desk.

"Two que—" The answer flowed from his mouth automatically before he stopped himself. He had never checked in a room with a single bed, _ever_. Not even during the time Sam had left to Stanford and Dad would send him on hunts on his own—before he left just as well, that was. So why would he stop now? He cleared his throat. "Um, two queens, thanks." Old habits die hard after all.

"How many nights?" The woman asked again and Dean almost grumbled. How the hell was he supposed to know how long he would be staying in this place? There was no case; there was no timeline to stick to. And it wasn't like he was on a vacation and he would be getting back to the bunker where he and Sam has been living for almost a year now, making it look and feel like the home they never had save each other and the impala. Except that wasn't the case anymore, was it? He only had his baby now. His ever-present, loyal, metallic home.

_God!_ He was suddenly _so_ tired.

"Two nights." Dean took the papers the old woman handed him and started to fill them distractedly, noticing the way the lady was staring at him by the time he was finished. He must have looked like hell since he was feeling it, too. He handed her the papers and some cash, took the room key with a faint "thanks" and took off to his room.

Once inside, the weary hunter took his jacket off and headed towards the bed closest to the door by habit before he went to the one closest to the bathroom on second thought. As the bed dipped slightly under his weight, Dean felt like the weight of the world settle itself back above his shoulders, making it impossible for him to straight his back or neck even a little. He put the whiskey bottle on the bed and lowered his head down, elbows and forearms resting on his thighs and took a deep breath. Though, it didn't feel like he could draw any.

He felt his will breaking under the dramatic events of the past couple of days—past couple of months. Years. It was taking everything into him not to dwell into this path of thinking. He didn't have the luxury of time to grieve Kevin, not while Sam's life had been on the stake. He didn't have the chance to stop and breathe after Sam was finally free from the angel's hold, not when he had to run as far as possible.

His mind was reeling, straining with the effort to take in everything that had happened that he finally had the chance to sit and actually _think_ about it. And he hated it. God, he hated it so much. It seemed like no matter how hard he would try he wouldn't be able to pretend that it was just another day, same shit. It wasn't something that he could just shove down, file it away in the back of his memory and live with it.

Kevin was dead. Sam was never going to forgive him—not that Dean thought he deserved his any kind of forgiveness anyway—and neither would Dean be able to forgive himself.

_Kevin's blood is on my hands and that ain't ever getting clean. _

_I'll burn for that._

_God! _

He got up, nearly falling back down when his knees didn't support him at first. Trying to square his shoulders against the tide of emotions and failing, he walked to the bathroom, washed his face, wishing that the water could be some kind of a magical liquid that took the memories away as well as sweat and dirt, couldn't to look at his face in the mirror and went back to the room.

He was aching to move, but he was tired enough to even stand. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept. It has been too long since he was able to close his eyes and find any sleep, not when he was so goddamn worried about his brother after Ezekiel—Gadreel—started to act off, and not while all the lies he created to hide the whole healing and possession mess he had gotten Sam into were eating at him day and night. For a long time now, he felt like he has been running only on adrenaline, which was now leaking out of his system since he finally had the chance to stop running, worrying, fighting. He didn't have anyone to worry about giving them a hunter funeral like he did for Kevin. He didn't have a brother who was out in the wind with an angel possessing him, the angel Dean didn't even know whom he was, screwing him over. He didn't have anything to do—anyone to protect.

He didn't have Sam.

Driven by wild emotions, Dean dragged his phone from the back of his jeans and scrolled to Sam's number. He almost pressed the call button before his own words echoed in the back of his head. His promise to not hurt anyone else. His breath got caught in his throat and he struggled to draw air into his lungs. He was a selfish bastard to even _think_ of calling Sam, not when he was the one who chose to leave, but _goddammit_, he couldn't do it without Sam—he couldn't breathe.

Reluctantly, the hunter called Cas instead. He didn't have the courage to call his brother but he had to check on him somehow.

"_Dean,_" The voice of his friend traveled through the phone after the first ring as if Cas had been waiting on the call.

"Hey, Cas." He cleared his throat and the angel waited. "How's Sam?" His voice cracked at the name, forcing his breath to catch and making him regret the decision he blindly made to call.

"_He is fine, Dean_." Cas told him, his voice low and calm as he reassured the hunter. "_I returned us to the bunker after you… left, and I assume Sam is sleeping now. You don't have to worry."_ His friend's words were reassuring, yet they sounded picked and gentle. If felt like Cas was treating him as if he was about to break. And it made him feel a lot worse.

"What about y—"

"Thanks, Cas." Dean cut him off. He got what he needed and he wasn't about to have a heart-to-heart little chat with an angel. He didn't need to be comforted. He didn't deserve to. He shut the phone, threw it on the small table near the door and went to bring a glass from the small kitchenette. He knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep anytime soon so he might as well use the time.

Heaving a sigh as he allowed his body to fall back on the bed, Dean picked up the booze bottle, took a long gulp and let his lips and tongue get used to the burn of the liquor before he poured himself a shot.

Despite how hard he tried not to think about anything else, at least for the rest of the night—or day, whatever—everything was rushing in high speed inside his head. His walls were crumbling and he didn't have the energy to stop them or build them back up. He didn't have the strength to stop all the vicious thoughts and memories that took over him anymore.

His mind dragged him back to that night. The night when he had to bury a _kid_ because he wasn't fast enough. Wasn't smart enough. His eyes dropped for a second and all he saw was Kevin's body on the floor, hollow burned eyes staring at him. He snapped them open. But it didn't make much difference, he still could see those eyes staring back accusingly at him. Another proof for how he always screwed up, how much he let down the people he cared about.

He could still feel the small dead weight of the kid in his arms as he carried him outside the bunker and to the car. He could still feel his shaking hands as they fixed up the makeshift pyre. He still felt the sharp knife of loss, stabbing him mercilessly into the heart over and over as he started the fire that wiped out the last physical proof for Kevin's existence. He tasted the same sour taste of the bile rising in his throat at the thought of where the kid would go since heaven was now locked.

But unfortunately for him, the numbness that crept inside his chest while leaden feet kept him upright as he stood and stared at fire didn't follow, only the pain echoing in his chest remained the same.

He needed to feel numb again.

Another glass of jack later, he still could see everything in his mind eyes. He still could hear his brother's screams—which wasn't actually his—echoing in his ears as he just stood there and watched his brother suffering and struggling. He knew it wasn't Sam, but what he saw and heard and felt told him different. It was Sam whom he had stood by and watched the king of hell torture.

It was Sam whom he had let down, again.

It was Sam who had looked at him straight in the eyes, disappointment shining in his.

It was Sam who let him just go.

The sound of glass breaking snapped him back to the motel room. He opened his eyes and look down at the glass in his hand—what was left of it anyway—and uncurled his fingers from around the glass he had squeezed until it broke, and watched it fall to the floor. He saw more than felt the whiskey spilling over his hand. He wouldn't have felt the sting of the alcohol as it slid down the various cuts where the small pieces of glass stuck out of his hand if he wasn't looking at it.

A shuddering breath tore out of him as he reluctantly put the bottle on the floor and then began to pull out the glass pieces piercing the skin on his right hand. Blood he didn't pay attention to flowed from the open cuts, dripping to the floor and staining the cheap rug covering it.

When he was sure there was no more glass connected to his hand, he watched himself wipe it along his thigh, staining his jeans in the process, feeling somewhat detached from his body as he did so. He didn't bother cleaning it any further or checking if any of the cuts needed stitches. He simply picked up the bottle with the same hand, drinking from the bottle now that the glass was no longer usable, which felt a lot better.

Dean relished the burn of the liquid on his tongue—it has been a long time since he had the chance to drink this much, this freely, without Sam lecturing him about how he was slowly but surely killing his liver.

_Sam_.

He squeezed the bottle a little harder, the intensifying sting of the cuts giving him some sort of sick satisfaction. Half the bottle was gone and his head didn't even start to buzz. He thought it wouldn't take him long to get drunk this time. He had spent a year in purgatory where no liquor store could be found, since then his alcohol consumption has been considerably less than he had used to.

But it looked like that wasn't the case today. His grieve and self-hatred and pain were way stronger than anything he could take to wash these feelings away. Images of people that had gotten hurt or killed because of him flashed through his mind and he felt something break inside him. A hot tear slid down his face against his will and he wiped it angrily.

He still refused to break.

Although it was taking every ounce of strength he had not to.

Dean shivered slightly, though he told himself he was just shifting to get his still booted feet on the mattress. He sat with his back to headboard of the bed, his knees up and the bottle that almost became a part of his hand dangling carelessly between his legs. Another shiver racked through his body as he rested his head against the wall.

Jesus, he was _tired_!

He shivered again and again until he realized he was shaking, but the only response he had for his exhausted body was pulling another long swig from the bottle. An idiotic idea of a eating a bullet, which didn't seem that idiotic to him right now, crossed his mind. It wasn't like each hunter ever existed hadn't thought about ending their life once and for all at one desperate night.

Bobby had showed him the bullet he looked at every day, thinking if it was finally the day he should take his own life. _Damn_, he missed the man.

A hollow thunk echoed in the quiet room as Dean hit the back of his head against the wall. He was cracking bit by bit. He took another long pull of the sour liquid, licking his lips and closing his eyes.

Another tear slipped from between his closed lids but he lacked the stubbornness to wipe it this time. Another one followed soon after until a stream was sliding along his cheeks silently. The shaking increased and he hit his head against the wall behind him again.

A swig .. a tear.. a hit. Three steps that created a perfectly devastating rhythm. Eventually, he found himself rocking slightly. He resisted the urge to drag his knees closer to his chest and curl into a tight ball to ward off the feelings he couldn't handle or decipher anymore. He resisted getting off of the damn bed and tearing the room apart.

He only drank, wishing he could drink himself to death. His life once meant something. Back in the day when he was actually saving people and protecting his brother, it meant something then. When he used to do the job _right_. And now? Look how high the price everybody had to pay for just being _near_ him.

The rocking increased as if he was trying to push away the pain, the hurt, the guilt, the loneliness and all the unwanted feelings that nestled inside him all his life. He tried to swallow but the lump in his throat stayed still. He tried to breathe but he only managed to gasp, which not after very long turned into a chocked sob.

And then he broke.

He let the bottle fall from his hand, leaving the last quarter of the brownish liquid to spill over the sheets and wet them, and held his hands together in a tight white-knuckles fist. Tightening his jaw and his eyes, he let the emotions that came with vengeance ram through him and crash against each others' shores and shake him harder. For a long whole, the only sound in the room was the muffled sound of his sobs and strangled breaths—the sound of his weakness.

Dean didn't know how long he stayed like that, and he didn't care. He didn't care how pathetic his sorry ass looked. He wanted it out, he just wanted everything to _get out! _He wanted the hollowness and numbness back; it has always been his only cure.

When he finally moved, it was to stumble to the bathroom and let out even the alcohol he had been poisoning his body with for the last couple of hours. The sour taste burned his throat as the bile kept rising and the harder he tried to breathe through it, the more it hurt. His legs gave out and his trembling body fell to the bathroom cold tile making him shiver even more before he suffocated in his own grief.

He choked on his every weakness, on his every ounce of guilt, on the pain that followed him everywhere he went. It was too much, too heavy, his body unable to hold it in any longer. His body movements were no longer coordinated, he retched all over the toilet, the floor, his arms. And he didn't feel it, didn't notice. Didn't care.

He just had enough energy to hold his body up, enough strength to stay conscious until he was empty.

After what felt like a lifetime, it was over. Dean struggled to get his legs underneath him and stand and eventually managed it after a few unsuccessful tries. He half-walked, half-stumbled into the room and towards the other bed, shaking and sweating as the world started to melt around the edges of his vision.

Falling hard to the clean bed, unable and careless to think about changing into clean cloth or drag the sheets over his shaking body, Dean was finally able to block every thought out, every feeling. He closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness with every fiber he had got, his only company at the mean time. He would seek revenge for Kevin and search for Gadreel later. He would find Abaddon and ice the bitch later. He would try to do just one thing right. Just not now.

Now he had finally got what he wanted.

He was finally numb.

**-The End-**

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- Thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it and found it satisfying and convincing. I'd really like to hear your thoughts and any suggestion for episode's tags. Please review :)

- Also, stay tuned for the next and final chapter of **Breakable**, and another one-shot tag but for an old episode :)

- **The title **of the story is inspired by the song **Comfortably Numb**, by **Pink Floyd.**

- **Aya**


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